


The Next Great Adventure

by theunderside



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Memories and Reminiscences, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 07:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11481909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunderside/pseuds/theunderside
Summary: The time has come, as it must for everyone. Harry Potter is no different. In his last days, he is visited by his beloved family and cared for by a young trainee Healer.(Note: there is no violence in his death, he is simply an aged man, greeting Death as an old friend. Relationships are mostly background.)





	The Next Great Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta, [GreyPrince](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyPrince)
> 
> Thank you, Jo, for allowing us to play in your world as you do. The characters are hers, the premise is mine.

**THE HEALER**

He liked the room dark, like a constant dusk. The lights were bright for visiting hours, forcing him to squint against the glow. His family took this for discomfort, their faces turning graver still. A bell rang, signaling the end of visiting hours. His youngest son and daughter kissed him goodbye, assuring him they would return tomorrow. Mr. Potter’s son ignored the man’s insistence that he return to normal life.

The trainee healer waited for the family to leave. He had been trying to not overhear their conversation, but the ward contained no silence or privacy charms. “I know you are lurking out there; come in. I may be retired, but I was an Auror for longer than you’ve been alive.” Mr. Potter’s voice was strong but kind. The man flushed slightly and walked into the room. He’d heard that watching Mr. Potter would be unconventional. “Ah, there you are. Always listen to your instincts.”

“Hello, Mr. Potter.” He couldn’t look the man in the eyes. Young though he was, he knew the stories, he knew of this man, how important he was.

And now here he was: dying.

“How are you feeling?” The trainee asked. “Do we need to up your pain medication?” The young man was looking at his charts, not at the patient.

“I am quite comfortable.” Mr. Potter replied. “Unlike yourself, I see.”

The young man tried to hide his embarrassment. “I’m sorry, sir.” He finally looked at the man. His hair was short, grayed, and rather kempt; he wondered if the man’s children had brushed it. His green eyes were bright and clear.

“You are a trainee, I assume?”

“I—yes, I am. This is my last rotation before I am fully qualified, though. I am not new.” He said, somewhat defensively.

“Ah,” Mr. Potter said, giving him and understanding smile. “You have gone through so much training and, now, they stick you in a room with a dying man to see how you handle it.”

There was suddenly something hard in the young man’s throat which made swallowing difficult.

“Have you ever watched a patient die?” His voice was curious, unaffected by his own mortality.

“No,” He flushed like a boy unsure of how to react.

“I am honored to be your first.” Mr. Potter coughed, a crackling, full sound. The healer didn’t reply, instead moving quickly to give his patient a napkin so he could check for remnants. After his fit, Mr. Potter looked up at the man. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” The healer examined the now bloodied napkin; that was expected. He threw it into the can which immediately burned it into nothingness.

Mr. Potter wheezed. “Maybe it is a good thing, that I am your first death.”

“How could that be?” The lump in his throat burned as he spoke.

“Because when I am gone, and you think back, you will know, without a doubt, that there was nothing you could do. That I was going to die no matter what. That whatever guilt you feel will be temporary, and will not have any reason to linger.”

The young healer was shocked. This thought had no occurred to him.

Mr. Potter gave him a weak smile. “What is your name, young man?”

“Carrick Isles. You...you knew my great-grandmother, Kathrine Bell.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, thinking back. “Katie, you mean? Katie Bell?”

“Yes,” Carrick smiled. “She told me about playing quidditch with you, and Dumbledore’s Army, and the war.” He spoke with a mournful nostalgia, momentarily lost in memories of a fireplace and the warmth of his grandmother as she told him adventurous bedtime stories.

“When did she die?” He asked quietly. He had long since learned that how someone died matter very little.

“Nearly ten years ago now.”

Mr. Potter closed his eyes for a moment. “I am very sorry to hear that.”

“She said you were so tiny when she first met you. I remember, she said, ‘I didn’t think he could sit the broom—thought, maybe the wind would take him.’” Mr. Potter smiled a moment, but another coughing fit took him. “Come, sir, you must take your potion.”

“No, no,” He waved the healer away, voice roughened. “It makes me sleep.”

“You deserve a rest, sir. Surely you of all—” Carrick tried to put the bottle into his hands again.

“I will not sleep my last few moments away,” He insisted, taking the bottle and putting it on the side table. “Only when I must, young man, and not before.”

There was a ringing silence as Carrick cycled through all of his training, trying to figure out a way to care for his patient. Mr. Potter, meanwhile, stared him down before relaxing into a knowing smile. “It is not just to test your mettle, that they put you in here.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t mean with me, specifically, though I am sure I am a rigorous enough teaching tool. I meant that all trainees must, at their last, care for someone as they die. Not just to experience the death of a patient. You have so much knowledge, so much ability now. It courses through you with such certainty. You seek to heal, to aid, to care. But what is some coughing potion to me? I have no reason to listen to you. In fact, I am only still in this damn hospital because I don’t wish to strain my family with my care. None of your training can help a dying man who is ready for the end. That is your challenge: to recognize an unwinnable problem.”

Carrick had nothing to say to this.

—

**A GREAT MAN**

It wasn’t until breakfast the next morning that his healer felt comfortable enough to speak to him again. The young man had had a lot to think about, Harry was sure, and had clearly taken his evening to do so.

“Your son owled. He will not be able to visit today: apparently one of the little ones has a bit of a pox.” Carrick said, uncovering the eggs and toast for his patient.

“Oh, dear,” He said, in great concern. “Which one?” Albus, who was supposed to visit again today, had two girls, who, in turn, had six children collectively.

“Little Rowena, he wrote,” Carrick said. “The letter, unfortunately, had to be burned, just in case.”

“Why? Worried that pox would kill me?” Harry’s eyebrow quirked.

“Yes,” Carrick looked back with no humor. “A significantly more complex death, particularly for one so resistant to care.”

Harry chuckled; he did not cough this time. He thought a moment, looking down at this hand. In his decline, holding objects and intentional movements had become difficult as his hands had developed a tremor. He lifted his right hand experimentally, but it was, of course, shaking. “As I cannot write a reply, would you mind doing so for me?”

“Of course,” Carrick replied without hesitation. Dictation was not in his job description, but he would care for his patient to the best of his ability.

The letter was short and kind, most of the sentiment one of worry and love for little Rowena. Harry assured his son that he understood that St. Mungo’s would not let him visit, even if the idea seemed ludicrous to him, Harry. Carrick helped Harry sign his name to the bottom of the letter, a slow, aching process.

Something about this broke something inside Carrick. He knew the stories of this man: the two wars, the Uprising and attempted coup nearly thirty years ago, and his leadership in the Ministry. History books, newspapers, and family stories had informed his knowledge of the Great Man before him.

A man who could no longer sign his name. A man who could no longer eat, bathe, or relieve himself on his own.

—

**EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES**

Harry wasn’t asleep. His eyes were closed, his body limp in the bed, but he was awake and listening to the sounds of the ward. There were other rooms on the floor, all private for whatever particular reasons. He heard a couple walk by, a squalling baby with them. He heard someone crying, uncomforted; he ached to offer comfort. He heard a woman screaming in agony like a knife in his chest.

Ginny had screamed like that when James died. A sound that came not from her throat, but her cracked heart. He’d held her as she fell to the ground, holding their son’s cold hand. Harry teared, but was overall numb in his moment. “Saved the hostages, he did.” James’s partner, Beatrice Clearwater, told them through her tears. “Blocked the curse with his body.” James was only forty; unmarried, childless. He had been next in line to head the Auror’s office.

Ginny never fully recovered. It was as though she had been Kissed by a Dementor. She was at her best when she was around her grandchildren, but it was a mask she could not always bear to wear. Harry tried to reach her, but she would not let him in. Ginny died five years later, only sixty-three. They weren’t exactly sure why she wasted away, but Harry knew it was a broken heart.

Ron was next to pass, a decade behind his sister; a brain disease took him quickly. Hermione grieved quietly. She moved in with Harry, so they could help each other. Harry cared for her as best he could, and Hermione, in turn, kept him from drowning alone. Hermione spent her time writing the memoir of The Golden Trio; it made her feel closer to her husband.

One warm July night, she crawled into bed beside her oldest friend. He drew her frail body to his own. They both knew, though neither understood how they knew, it was time.

“I love you, Hermione,” He whispered to her.

“I love you, too, Harry. Tell them all I love them.” She breathed, eyes tired, but clear.

“Of course.” He whispered, brushing hair from her face. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You’ll see me soon.” She kissed his hand.

They said no more. Harry opened his eyes in the morning. Hermione looked so serene in death. He stared at her for a few moments, crying silently. They were all gone now.

Only he was left. It seemed cruel, having to watch his friends, his wife, his son die. He had the responsibility of living. He could not ask this pain of anyone, however; he took this on so they would not have to. Hermione had died three years ago. _I’m a little late, but I’m coming._

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” Harry said warmly, opening his eyes to greet his visitor.

Harry’s breath caught and his eyes closed again, pain rushing from his chest.

“Harry, are you ok?” Draco Malfoy moved to his side.

“I’m fine,” He breathed, opening his eyes again.

Draco touched his shoulder. “My son and Albus could not come, but they did not want you to be alone. I volunteered to come in their stead.”

“Volunteered, eh?”

“It was either that or watch an infant with colic.” Draco had not lost any of his haughty tone with age, but there was not bite in his words.

“I’m touched, I—” His sentence was impeded by a cough that shook his whole body. Draco stepped backward, giving Harry enough room. “So sorry, the cough potion isn’t perfect.”

“No,” Draco said, his gaze concerned. “It wouldn’t be.”

“Tell me of the family. Distract an old man.”

“I’m older than you.” Draco replied in a tone that reminded both men of his younger self.

“That’s right. Care to trade places?” Harry chuckled, but that brought on a second cough. “Now, tell me.”

Draco did, sitting on a stool, telling little stories of the families: one of Lily’s boys was set for a promotion in the International department; Fred II was considering opening a Weasley Wizarding Wheezes location near Beauxbatons; Albus was considering retirement. All things that his visitors hadn’t told Harry; these unimportant things would have no interest to a dying man. How wrong they were.

After nearly half an hour of this discussion, which lulled Harry into a false sense of warmth, another coughing fit overtook him. This one would not let up so easily.

“In the drawer there, the blue bottle.” He pointed, hand shaking slightly, voice constricted.

Draco moved with ease despite his age. “Here.” He saw Harry’s shaking hands, and brought the bottle to his lips instead of handing it over.

Harry took the required swallow, just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to put him to sleep immediately. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Draco put the bottle to the side.

“Do you care to ponder the unlikelihood of this present?”

“I don’t think anyone could have predicted I would be standing by your deathbed.”

“Unless you put me here, of course.”

“Very true.”

They were silent for a time, the weight of history settling like snow.

“I was thinking, before you came in here—remembering, really.” He wasn’t looking a Draco; he was staring at the door as though it should open. His eyes burned.

“About what?” Draco settled himself on the stool again.

“Ron. Hermione. Ginny. James.” His voice broke a little as it always did when he mentioned his son. “I was thinking that, as much as it hurts to not have them, at least I saved them this pain. The pain of being the last one. The pain of being alone.”

Draco didn’t say anything.

Harry’s eyes went to him. “And then I realized that I am not the last. That you are.” Draco had a lump in his throat. Astoria had died only last year. The two men had only each other, and, with the encouragement of their sons, had used each other to push through the loneliness. “I’m sorry, Draco. To leave you the last man standing.”

Draco stood again, taking Harry’s shaking hand in his. “I’m not alone. I have Scorpius and Albus, Teddy and Victoire, and Lily and Leo. I have generations of grandchildren.” He paused, needing to breathe deeply a moment. “Do not take on this guilt in these last days, Harry.”

“Take care of them for me, please,” Harry begged, giving in to emotions he tried to keep at bay in company. He started coughing again, taking his hands from Draco to cover his mouth. He wiped the blood from his hands onto a nearby cloth.

“Of course, Harry.” Draco reached for the blue bottle. “Here.”

Harry nodded, allowing Draco to press the bottle to his mouth. Harry took the proper dose this time, sleepiness coming on quickly.

“Thank you, Draco.”

“If...if you see Astoria, tell her I love her,” Draco whispered. He squeezed Harry’s hand again.

“I will,” Harry breathed.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

“Goodbye, Draco.”

—

**MASTER OF DEATH**

“Have you heard the Tale of the Three Brothers, Carrick?” Mr. Potter asked him, eyes closed.

“The Beedle story? Yes, of course.” He replied absently, measuring new doses of his patient’s sustaining potions. “Not one of my favorites—too far-fetched for me.”

Mr. Potter chuckled lightly, opening his eyes now. “Damn logical Ravenclaws, no imagination.”

“How did you know—”

“Just a feeling,” He dismissed the question. “But you’re wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” Carrick put the final bottle down.

“The story. It is true.”

“What?” Carrick took a seat beside the man.

“Well, whether Death is a sentient being I cannot say. But there were brothers, there was a Wand, a Stone, and a Cloak. Someone did reunite them, and that person did separate them again.”

“You’re barking!” Carrick smiled, joking with the man.

“It is rude to call a dying man crazy, young man.” Mr. Potter chastised, also in jest. “That person was me. Believe me or not, that is your choice. But I found and used the three Hallows. I am the Master of Death.” He laughed at the title and was taken by another bloody cough.

“And yet death will best you,” Carrick whispered, not really wanting the man to hear him. He pressed a handkerchief to Mr. Potter’s mouth.

“Is dying the same as losing? It is while living that I have gained and lost. Death will be something else entirely. It was once described to me as the next great adventure.” He coughed again. “Death has come for me, as it comes for us all. Some as young men—” His eyes welled, “—some as old men, but he comes.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Carrick stood, confused.

“An excellent question, young man.” Mr. Potter’s body shook in a sudden chill. His face contorted with the pain. There was nothing Carrick could do until the episode was over. It was immediately followed by another coughing fit. Once the blood was again wiped from the patient’s mouth, Carrick supplied him with his sustaining potions.

Mr. Potter had told him to recognize an unwinnable problem; he understood those words at their face value. But, as he threw the bloody handkerchief away, Carrick understood the undercurrent that he had never even considered until now:

He thought he would spend a few days merely watching a great man die. He hadn’t expected to see his own mortality in Mr. Potter’s death. A young man, and a wizard at that, he had had no thought or concern of death. Until now. Death could not be defeated; the unwinnable problem would be his own, eventual death.

“Not long now, Carrick. Thank you for your service.” Mr. Potter whispered as the potions put him to sleep.

—

**ONTO THE NEXT**

It wasn’t long. Carrick sent word, bending rules so that Mr. Potter’s child could be beside him. His patient’s breath was labored, though his tremors were lessening. He couldn’t move much at all, in fact. Movement didn’t matter now anyway.

Albus Potter-Malfoy held one of his hands, holding back tears, and Lily Potter held the other, her tears falling freely. Scorpius had a hand on Albus’s shoulder, supporting him quietly. Lily’s husband, Leo Abernathy, a quiet, stoic man, stood behind her, appearing unsure of his own emotions. Death affected everyone differently, Carrick knew, but watching it in real time was difficult.

Mr. Potter didn’t say anything; he’d lost his ability to speak in the middle of the night. He could squeeze his hands just a bit, just enough for his children to feel. Eventually, Mr. Potter’s hands stopped and his chest stilled.

“I think...Healer Isles, I think you should check him.” Leo said hoarsely.

The others stilled, watching Carrick move towards the man. The spell gave him the answer. “I’m sorry.”

Lily broke, falling on her father in tears. Albus fell back onto his husband, he and Scorpius sharing their grief. Leo shed quiet tears, rubbing his wife’s back lightly.

Carrick backed away, unable to control his own reaction. He stepped outside the door, beginning to cry himself. His first patient’s death. Such a great man. He fought to control himself and won. He had to remain professional. There were protocols to follow. They had to make an announcement, once the others were ready.

Harry Potter was dead.

No.

Harry Potter was on his next, great adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came to me in 2016 as I, and my family, prepared for the death of our patriarch. This is very much inspired by those feelings and emotions surrounding my great-grandfather's final days. I couldn't, however, immediately begin writing this piece, the pain too raw. Writing through tears is never easy. So here it is, over a year later. He was never a Harry Potter person—if he even knew what it was, I'd be surprised. But this is for him.
> 
> This was written using the [Novlr](http://novlr.org/) program.


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